In the early evening, a now, as man is bending <br />over his writing table. <br />Slowly he lifts his head; a woman <br />appears, carrying roses. <br />Her face floats to the surface of the mirror, <br />marked with the green spokes of rose stems. <br /> <br />It is a form <br />of suffering: then always the transparent page <br />raised to the window until its veins emerge <br />as words finally filled with ink. <br /> <br />And I am meant to understand <br />what binds them together <br />or to the gray house held firmly in place by dusk <br /> <br />because I must enter their lives: <br />it is spring, the pear tree <br />filming with weak, white blossoms.<br /><br />Louise Gluck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poem-5/
